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THE HUNGRY SOUL
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The Hungry Soul: Songs for the Spirt

AVOIDING FAITH

God, she is literally sole to sole with me.
I can glimpse the side of her sandals.
I'm a lout; I could at least be civil.
But civility will lead to a casual chat,
then she'll cast words like hooks
and treat my gestures like a fisherman's float
to see if her bait is taken.
Especially now I'm vulnerable
here, in this place alone, half drunk
and not wanting to be.
Faith
I overheard you say your name was Faith something or other.
Faith, you're not my type.
A bible belt name--no not for me.
You're tall, long haired, and simply dressed.
Your voice is soft--almost soothing.
You're just my type, and you're trying to snuggle close.
I'll inch away and study the Miller beer sign across the room,
or watch the D.J. change the record.
With me it could only be a one night stand.
See those couples there
away from the counter where the singles mix;
there by the dining tables, I sat there once
with someone like you.
They sit eye to eye, passing
wine glasses between each other's lips, breaking
bread and sharing food, reaching
for each other's fingers, touching
as their palms join prayer like, whispering
songs into each other's ear, believing
the lyrics of those songs, and most contenting of all
loving.
No,
not for me, I've too much wanderlust.
Rapture,
I've known the rapture of the first meetings, but then
like two doves too long in a cage
we'd first coo, but then spar, claw,
then in a murderous rage
peck each other apart, piece by piece.
No,
I've done that before and I'm soured.
Are you giving up on me?
Now it's you who inch away.
Ah, but your hand trails behind you invitingly.
I've but to grab it, but I can't
just seize it out of loneliness.
Desire,
I need desire
to tap your shoulder
and have you, Faith, lead me by the hand
past the bar counter, tables and chairs
to wherever you'd have me go with you.

BODY AND SOUL

Once a butterfly, the affairs of a caterpillar no longer matter.
But metamorphosis hinges on the crawling one for there is
no cracking of the rigid, silken, bonds of the cocoon,
no miraculous emerging, no pulsating of unfolding wings,
no sunlit flight of blazing color,
unless the larva first survives unhurt.
A parasitic wasp, a lack of leaves, a meddling downpour
and the earthbound body shrivels and dies before soaring,
or worse it crawls out a bug with stunted wings
to flap a parody of a graceful and heavenward flight.
If butterflies are angels then the larvae made them so.

Copyright 1997, Richard Fein. All rights reserved. Reprinted with permission of the author.

CLICK HERE to find out more about Richard Fein.


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